throwing stones at a glass moon
by Spikyleaf Katana
Summary: The Fifth Mizukage has worked tirelessly to put an end to her country's dark days. Nothing comes without a cost though: with the rise of a terrorist group she thought defeated, and with the Akatsuki pulling more strings than she'd like, Mei has to wonder whether she's sacrificed the right things.


**A/N: Okay, I'm really tentative about uploading this, since I don't know whether this is clichéd or completely missing the mark or something. Let me know if that's the case!  
...but please don't hurt me?**

* * *

The attack, if it could have been called that, occurred on a morning where the wind was cool, the mist was sweet on the lips, and one could see the sun flashing and glittering in the gutter-water while running past.

It had been a nice morning, a morning where one would feel optimistic about the day upon awakening, and all in all, it had been not been a morning that the Mizukage would have expected to have acid hurled at her face.

She had been strolling through the hustle and bustle of the morning markets, stopping now and again at various stalls to chat with the vendors and farmers, who were eager to display their wares to their beloved leader. At one point, she bought herself a few sticks of dango, though she ended up sharing them with some children who'd run up to her with enthusiastic questions and awed, adoring smiles. Letting them take her by the hand, she'd listened to their chatter and laughed at their pouts as they led her through the crowd.

It was as she was offering them advice for walking on water that a figure with a hood tugged low over their face shoved through the crowd. The Mizukage saw his arm fling out as though he had merely stumbled and was attempting to break his fall; in his fingers, though, was a smooth, pale flask, and sluicing through the air towards her was a clear liquid which could easily have been sake.

The Mizukage pushed the children behind her, snapped out a few seals, redirected the acid into some watermelons, before proceeding to incapacitate her assailant by sealing him into the ground up to his throat.

What was left of the watermelons steamed and hissed, the acid having burnt its way through the rind and well into the red flesh. Market-goers quickly fled the scene, the acrid fumes making their eyes water and throats sting.

After the arrival of other shinobi, the Mizukage glanced at the remains of the produce, and handed the vendor a hefty stack of ryo. He took it meekly and allowed himself to be escorted away.

Nobody wanted to be around the Mizukage when she was furious.

That morning had been and gone, a faraway memory that was fading already in the dark of the interrogation centre. The ANBU agents stood silently in the shadowed perimeters of the circular room, and any fascination or amusement caused by the sobbing, groaning figure at the centre of the room remained neatly within the confines of their white porcelain masks. They did not touch the young man, who had been stripped of all clothing save a pair of ragged and bloodied trousers. They did not need to. Bound at the ankles and wrists to a metal chair, chains crossing over his bare, shuddering chest, his head had been yanked back with iron bands to expose the hollow of his throat. The dim lamplight wavered across his grime-slicked skin.

Despite the almost _delicious _vulnerability it presented, the young man's throat remained whole, aside from perhaps half a dozen nicks and scratches which had scabbed over already. They were remnants of preliminary attempts at intimidation; though they'd known it would not work, it was still standard procedure.  
One of the ANBUs might have yawned behind their mask. The young man continued alternating between crying and choking on his own mucus-thickened saliva, and the gag shoved between his jaws.

_Pat._

_Pat._

_Pat._

Aside from the soft, almost innocent noises of water dripping ever so gently onto the prisoner's forehead, and his gurgling whimpers, the room was silent. The stench of urine hung pungent in the air – the most interesting development for the past two hours was that he had lost control of his bladder.

Then – a faint, rhythmic _tap tap tap. _The ANBUs tilted their heads slightly, shoulders straightening. The distinctive sound of the Mizukage's footsteps echoing down the dimly-lit corridor was almost instantly recognisable, especially here – who else would wear heels to an interrogation centre?

After a moment, her voice became discernible, along with that of a lower, male one.

"…know the budget won't allow for it this year, and by no means is it a priority, but we must refurbish this establishment at some stage," the Mizukage was saying, and the ANBUs could hear the wrinkling of her nose in her voice. "This is just primitive."

_Pat._

_Pat._

_Pat._

Her companion snorted. The ANBUs recognised Ao's derisive tone. "You make this sound like a rundown restaurant. Like you're expecting many more to come through here – some people might take that the wrong way."

The Mizukage gave a non-committal hum, before replying coolly, "As our esteemed Konoha friends would say, sometimes you must fight fire with fire. Our people are used to it." It was then that she came into view, heels tapping out a staccato beat on the wet stone floor. A dark shawl was draped across her shoulders; understandable, since it was much cooler under the mountains. Ao followed after her, the corridor too narrow for two people to walk abreast.

The ANBU bowed as they entered, the Mizukage returning the greeting. As she straightened, she looked around, eyes flashing in the lamplight as she sighed. "The interrogation squad never cleans up after themselves... Look there, Ao. Those stains have been there since the Third War." With manicured nails, she pointed at a section of the wall opposite, which was indeed patterned with dark blotches that matched the rusty shade of old blood.

Behind their mask, one of the younger ANBUs made a face, having always thought those stains to be perhaps mildew or otherwise.

_Pat._

_Pat._

_Pat._

Ao frowned, watching their country's leader pace the perimeter of the room and paying no mind to the man tied down in the centre of the room. "Mizukage-sama, this is a –"

"I'm aware this is an interrogation chamber, Ao," she interrupted, turning to flash a honeyed-poison smile at him, "considering that there's a prisoner here with us. Whether thirteen year old bloodstains make him uncomfortable or not makes little difference to me."

The prisoner in question gave a choked moan. Mucus was oozing from his nose.

"However," she continued, "having viscera and _urine_ just sittinghere does. I won't have any of these shinobi returning to their families with some disgusting bacterial infection."

As she spoke, she strode towards the prisoner, turning her attention to the bucket of water hanging from the ceiling. Centred above his forehead, droplets of water rhythmically swelled through the small hole drilled into the base, falling with a soft _pat_ between his eyebrows. Trickling down, they mingled with the man's own tears, cutting pale lines through the grime.

The prisoner's eyes flickered open upon hearing the Mizukage approach. She held his trembling, pleading gaze for a brief moment, before turning to examine his restraints in apparent disinterest, her lips pursed. The man flinched when she reached out to drag a nail over the chains wrapped around his upper arms, before tapping thoughtfully at the bands tightened across his skull. The tendons in his neck strained and jumped as he made an attempt to force words out through the gag.

_Pat._

_Pat._

_Pat._

The Mizukage gracefully slid around to the other side of the chair, leaning on the armrest and draping an arm languidly across the back of the chair, behind the prisoner's neck; a little shift of the hips, and she would have been resting in his lap. Her breath ghosted across his wet hair.  
"What's that?" she asked quietly, bringing up those perfectly manicured nails to brush the trembling line of his jaw. "Was that the magic word I heard? Was that a _please_?"

He wheezed and scrunched his eyes shut again. Tears leaked out.

_Pat._

_Pat._

_Pat._

Ao started forwards. "Mizukage-sama, I don't think –"

"No, you don't," she said dismissively. Suddenly grasping the prisoner's face, nails digging into pallid cheeks, she snapped open the forehead restraints and pulled his head forwards, into the watery light. "Look at him, Ao. He can't hurt me. I thought I just hadn't gotten a good look at his face that day, but he really is barely more than a boy. I wouldn't be surprised if his voice still cracks."  
With a twist of her wrist, she sharply turned the prisoner's face towards her. "And yet you play with grown-up toys," she half cooed, half hissed.

He whimpered, and made another valiant attempt at speaking through the gag, and choked on it.

The Mizukage nodded, as though she understood, and let his head fall back into the path of the water. He squirmed and twisted to the side. She smiled warmly. "Let's made a deal, shall we? You're a handsome boy. Very loyal, very…_brave_, judging by how you refuse tell us who sent you. Now, the water's already carved _such _a pit into your forehead, and we wouldn't want to see it any larger, sweetheart."

This was hardly true, but it was what victims of this torture method perceived as being the truth, especially after long hours spent in the chair. And the young man had already lasted more than half a day. He keened hoarsely, eyes frantically locked onto the Mizukage's face.

"If I take the water away, and take your gag off, you'll tell me what I would very much like to know, alright?"

He jerked his head in a frantic nod, and gave an anguished sob as another droplet hit his eyelid.

_Pat._

The Mizukage stood, nodding at the ANBU agents. One of them moved to winch the bucket to the side while she worked the gag out none-too-gently. When she removed it the man gasped and spluttered and gasped some more, heaving several deep shaking breaths.

"_Thank you_," he whispered, tears mingling with snot on his face. "Oh thank you, _thank you_."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," the Mizukage said, delicately stepping back and wiping her hand on her dress. She raised her eyebrows at the ANBUs and Ao as if to say _we got a grateful one, score!_ "Now, can you tell us your name?"

"Yori S-Sato," he said shakily, still shuddering, still spluttering.

Her tone was light, conversational, as though she was at the market and merely deciding which flavour dango to pick. "Yori, do you remember what you tried to do yesterday?"

Yori made a stricken noise. "I – I tried to attack you," he moaned, "I'm s-sorry, they have my sister and –"

Oh, so that was why. Behind their masks, the ANBUs sighed internally. The seven hours spent in the chair had loosened Yori's tongue marvellously, and there was not a single fracture of deceit in his stuttering words.  
Which made it all the worse.

"And you wanted to protect her, of course. How noble," the Mizukage said dismissively. A look at Ao told the ANBU that he knew what they knew – that not a single word that Yori had said had sunk in. The faint, tense jumping of a muscle in the bodyguard's jaw told them that she was already far gone, gone into that dark, mysterious headspace, where it was dangerous to get her back.  
It was the place she went when called ugly. Old. Destined to be alone forever.  
And the threat of having her face melted off – that apparently sent her there, too.

Ao's jaw tensed and settled into a determined line. "Mizukage-sama," he said, clearing his throat loudly, stance widening ever so slightly in preparation. "Mizukage-sama…"

She whipped around to glare at him. "Ao, shut up or I'll kill you." He winced as though physically struck by the venom in her words, but it had the intended effect. After a moment, her brow furrowed in slight consternation, and she shook her head slightly as if to clear her ears of water.

The ANBU nodded almost imperceptibly at Ao as the Mizukage composed herself, and continued.

"This _they _you mention – they would be the ones who gave you _dokuhebi ni kama _and told you to attack me? Because that concoction is very difficult to procure, and I doubt a young man such as yourself would have it just…lying around."  
She leaned in, eyes pale and hard as jade.  
"Tell me honestly, Yori, who are _they, _and what do they wish to tell Kirigakure?"

The steel in her voice seemed to cut at Yori's flesh, for he flinched again, and stumbled in his haste to answer. "Th-th-there's a group of them, Mizukage-sama," he managed to struggle out, "They arrived in Ogawayama – th-they arrived about four months ago. They're shinobi, everyone's afraid of them! We did what they told us to do – they had the mayor's daughters, that's why Kirigakure must not have been told, they've taken over the entire village…I don't know what they want," he began to sob, "They took my sister and they – they did _horrible _things to her and told me – told me if I didn't – if I told – then – I'm sorry, Mizukage-sama, she's all I have and –"

The Mizukage had gone very still, the line of her lips hardening. Not two moments ago her eyes had been glinting, alight with a cold fire, but now – now they had nothing. Blank. The ANBUs tensed, recognising danger. She'd finally heard him.  
On her face was a killing look.

"Yori," she said softly, her eyes flat, "you've done very well. I'm sorry we've done what we did to you. If you'd told us at the beginning –" She stopped, and an empty laugh passed from her lips. "No…no, you were frightened. They told you they have eyes and ears here, didn't they? A ruse…to have this happen to you…"  
Yori's chest shuddered, straining under the chains. The Mizukage reached out slowly, absentmindedly, taking the locks in hand. They were special locks, designed by Saboru Oshiro himself – made of the same metal as chakra blades, they could not be opened by any key. Instead, the tiny tumblers and gears inside responded only to the ebb and flow of chakra, subtle patterns that only a select few would know.  
The Mizukage's face was distant as a small burst of light flared from between her fingers, the locks snapping open. "Yori, I'm going to call healers for you. You'll be free to go. First, though, tell me this – describe these people for me, and tell me word for word what they told you when they gave you _dokuhebi ni kama._"

Yori turned his gaze upon her, and a weak smile lifted his cracked lips. "Thank you," he whispered shakily, and made a feeble attempt at sitting up, the chains sliding and coiling with low metallic clicks onto the ground. His shoulders trembled, and he collapsed back against the chair. "There…they're mostly men, but there's a few women, too. The one that gave me the acid…I think his name was Hiroto. Dark haired, tall…his eyes look like they're laughing at you."

The Mizukage's fingers clenched around one of the chains, knuckles turning white. Her smile was rigid.

"He said –" Yori had to stop, out of breath. Struggling to pull oxygen into his lungs, he pressed onwards.

"He said t-to do to it – with regards from the Akaitsuru."

::::

News of the torture of the young man from Ogawayama spread through Kirigakure like a poisonous fog, such as was often favoured in the Third War. It was a popular jutsu: quiet, deadly and incredibly economical considering the large amount of chakra required. Memories of the victims with their seared-red skin, pus-ridden sores and rattling breathing still occasionally leapt unbidden into the forefront of Mei's mind. Usually while she was eating. It was such an appetite ruiner.

Wartime metaphors aside, it was not long before Mei found herself called before the council.

"_What _were you thinking?"

Mei's eyelids flickered slightly as a warm fleck of saliva landed on her cheek. Her throat itched from the cigarette smoke curling about their heads; she had already cast a filtering jutsu of her own design about her nose and mouth. There was no way she was going to dig herself into a premature grave because of lung cancer from secondary smoke exposure at council meetings.

Sitting at the round table with her were her _dearest _advisors. So wise, so learned.  
Oh, how she trusted them.  
Oh, how she would be lost without their council.  
Oh, how she would very much like to push them off a cliff.

Sadly, such behaviour was unbecoming for a Mizukage attempting to break free from the image of the Bloody Mist. And she grudgingly had to admit that she did need them. She always had been flighty, and it was old cranky women like Kasumi Matsu who kept her in check.

Matsu leant forwards, lit cigarette pinched between her gnarled fingers, lips pinched in a wrinkled line of displeasure, Mei pinched in the crosshairs of her flinty stare. Her gravelly smoker's voice sawed on, and even after four years, Mei still had to resist the urge to cringe.  
"Terumi, do you realise what you've done?"

Mei let out a long, slow breath. She was well aware of what she had done. In colloquialisms that she was sadly barred from using due to her position, _she had fucked up big time. _

"Yes," she said evenly, meeting Matsu's gaze. She held herself straight and kept her features neutral, but aside from that, did not bother to conceal the shame she felt. Because she should be ashamed. And she was. "I authorised the torture of the man who attacked me. He had refused to tell us who had sent him, and why – there had to have been a hidden agenda, because the attack was so obvious and public…"

The plump, smooth-faced man at Mei's left reached over to pat her hand soothingly. His fingers were soft, like they were coated in a fine layer of chalk, though she knew it was just the scented powders that many of the wealthy seemed to favour. Yoshio Kaki, in Mei's mind, waddled precariously along the fine line between irritating and vaguely endearing, with his bumbling manner and simpering ways. Tolerating him was something that had to be done in measured doses. However, she knew not to underestimate him – he was a very shrewd businessman.  
She was shrewder.  
"That was entirely reasonable, Terumi-san," Kaki said gently, still patting her hand with his pudgy, powdered palm. At her thin smile, he withdrew, demurely tucking his hands back into his embroidered sleeves. "After all, with what we have experienced in the past, how could we have expected otherwise?"

There was a snort from the man directly across from Mei. Inside, her self-control twinged as her carefully schooled features sharpened into a cold stare. "Have you got something to say, Sogiya-san?" she said frostily.

Jirou Sogiya leaned back in his chair, the brutish, hulking mass of his shoulders causing the bamboo supports to creak meekly. A humourless grin cracked its way across his jaw, which looked like it had been hacked out of a tree trunk with a blunt axe. Mei had once seen Jirou bite off half a man's hand with that jaw.  
"The enemy will never be predictable, Kaki-san," he said, "A good Mizukage would not jump to such conclusions, much less place the well-being of innocent civilians at risk." At this, he flicked his gaze directly at Mei, and his grin widened ever so slightly.

Matsu sighed and took a long drag of her cigarette as Kaki fumbled to Mei's defence. Mei pursed her lips. She didn't know why he bothered.

"Thank you, Kaki-san," she said sharply, ignoring his blustering. "Sogiya-san. You're right, the trap we've fallen into is different to–"

"Ah, Terumi-san," Sogiya chuckled, interrupting her, "you have to be accurate when dealing with these matters. The trap that _you've _fallen into, you mean."

Mei's eyes narrowed. "That may be the case. We've already established that what I've done was rash; please keep up," she snapped. "As the Mizukage, my mistakes may bring down the whole of Kirigakure, you included, so please excuse me if I _slip up on semantics."_ Even as she spoke, she realised that she'd lost control again, and cursed herself for it. She was doing that a lot, lately.

Sogiya only gave her a sardonic smile. "Devil's in the details, Mizukage-sama," he drawled, before adopting a paternal tone, and Mei couldn't have wanted to spit lava into his eyes more than if he'd wagged a finger at her and patted her head. "But don't you worry your pretty little head over them, you need to focus on the big picture, yes? Which is what our people think of an innocent man being tortured unjustly."

Mei froze for a moment. She had no defence for that. Yori _had _refused to tell them his agenda, but it had always been the natural thing to assume that some time spent in the chair would loosen up stubborn tongues like his. That had been under Yagura's rule, though…  
And that was the catch, Sogiya's proverbial devil, she realised with an internal groan. Yori hadn't been stubborn, or loyal. He had simply been frightened. Stupid, but frightened nonetheless. It hadn't been his fault, and it would simply be delivering more injustice unto him if she blamed him.

"Terumi-san couldn't have known he was a mere scapegoat," Kaki offered, ever her obsequious and lavender-scented saviour.

"Innocent until proven guilty," Matsu said bluntly, ignoring the tea that Kaki had just poured her in favour of another long drag on her cigarette.

Mei took another long, slow breath. "He threw acid at my face, and it was no Henge," she reminded them. At Matsu's cold stare, she added quickly, "Not that that excuses Yori's treatment. My point is that it was a misunderstanding, a…a grievous error in judgement."

"I believe the point is if you truly wish to set yourself apart from Yagura, you would not have subjected Yori to the chair." Sogiya pushed his cup over to Kaki, who looked at it in bewilderment, but hastened to fill it at Sogiya's impatient flick of a finger. Sogiya continued, a sly smile sliding his lips up his teeth. "Just how much of this _error in judgement_ was because your pretty complexion was in danger?"

Mei bristled. "I –"

"After all, your ex-fiancé's not likely to take you back with a melted face."

Kaki let out a tiny shriek as Mei's fingers suddenly snapped into themselves, crushing her cup in a rigid fist. An odd ringing was curling through the air, high and clear like a bell and it drowned out the sounds of rustling cloth and anxious breathing. She was suddenly acutely aware of every hot pulse of blood through her veins rushing and rushing and _rushing _and shards of porcelain were embedded in her fingers but it didn't hurt instead there was a pain between her gut and lungs as though she had been winded and she felt the muscles in her face instinctively pull up to bare her teeth in the expression that they called a smile and –

"Shut up or I'll kill you."

Matsu stamped out her cigarette and raised her stony stare. "Behave," she said simply, coldly. Mei blinked, her sight drawing back into focus, the blurred shadows at her peripheral vision edging away. Everyone in the room fell silent, Kaki fiddling nervously with his fingers. She could feel Sogiya's gaze on her, the shadow of a smirk playing at his mouth.  
He'd known that stab was uncalled for; he'd known it would have hurt; he'd known she would snapped.

_Son of a cock-thirsty bitch._ She gave him a look filled with unbridled loathing, hoping he would understand the magnitude of her desire to melt him where he sat. While Matsu was preoccupied with lighting another cigarette, he pouted mockingly at her.  
Oh, how she regretted giving him clemency after the war.

Matsu gave a disapproving grunt and tossed a cloth napkin across the table towards Mei. "Clean yourself up, Terumi, you're getting blood all over the table."

Ah, so she was. Wiping up the still warm droplets, she began salvaging the remains of her dignity along with the porcelain shards from her flesh. "Apologies for my rudeness, Sogiya-san," she said, forcibly modulating her voice into the epitome of calm. He would not get to her. Not again. "The failings of my personal life and my judgement aside, one other question remains. The elephant in the room, if you will."  
She lay the red-streaked pieces delicately along a corner of the napkin, and used the rest to stem the flow of blood.  
"As the former leader of the Akaitsuru, do you have anything to do with this movement?"

Sogiya snorted. Of course. She should have expected that. "I have nothing to do with these imposters. I didn't even know about them until one of them tried to melt your pretty little face off the other day."

Mei looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Now there's a lot of talk about my pretty face," she said flatly, before reminding him, "You know your word won't mean very much on this, considering what you've done in the past."

"The past is the past, my dear Mizukage." Sogiya's lip curled. "Whatever happened to equality in the face of the law?"

"The law doesn't favour men who've tried to kill pretty young Mizukages, Sogiya-san," Mei said, and suddenly gave him a smile as sweet as honey, "much less men who lead terrorist groups and start civil wars."

* * *

**A/N: ...thoughts? Comments? Feedback?**

******(Mei might be a bit OOC...this does take place about four years before her first canon appearance though, I promise I'll try to justify it.*********frets anxiously* ********)**

******Special thanks to Netto Zero, who beta'd this. :D**

**Also, there was this really fantastic guest reviewer on the pre-revamped version of this! If you're reading this, thank you so much for the review! It was incredibly insightful and helpful, and I kept it in mind when revamping this. Hopefully it's been changed for the better? I'd really love to know what you think. *frets some more***


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